Silence
by crackinthecup
Summary: Thrice Bilbo and Thorin talk, and thrice words that should be given breath remain unsaid. Bagginshield.


Another cold, wet night rolled in with surly clouds and even surlier rain. The torrent lashed, slicing like knives into the skin, and the crash of thunder set hill and stone alive with unease. Bilbo sat huddled within the gaping maw of a great boulder cloven in two halves that clung together in a bridge overhead. As rain collected in a myriad of rushing rivulets hurtling toward the Mitheithel, the Hoarwell, still miles upon miles away to the east, he sat and he brooded. Branches whined, somewhere, everywhere, and Bilbo stiffened, ears twitching, alert and very much afraid. He wondered if there were wolves in these areas. And then self-reprimand readily clamored upon his lips; of course there were no wolves in these areas, there had not been any since the Fell Winter of 1311-1312, in the Shire-reckoning. But recollection struck just as a silvered gash of lightning bled high overhead: they were far, far away from the Shire, now.

"Cannot sleep, Mater Baggins?"

And then there was Thorin too. Bilbo could have cursed the fates.

He opened his mouth to retort that no, he could not sleep, and whose fault was that if he might ask, who was it that decided to stop here for the night, camping out in the middle of nowhere at the mercy of the elements? But branches creaked, and the wind howled, and Bilbo looked up with fear pulsing in his gut.

"There are no beasts in these lands, Master Baggins." Thorin settled down in the boggy earth beside him, and Bilbo could not deny the slick of relief that poured through him at his words. "Though there will be where we are headed. Beasts, aye, and fouler creatures."

Bilbo's head swiveled round. "Fouler creatures? Like—"

"A dragon, for one." There was a glint in Thorin's eyes, a wry curl to his lip, but truly, in this murk it was so hard to tell.

Bilbo's features crinkled into something that was almost a scowl. "Well, believe it or not, I _know_ there will be a dragon." He stared past Thorin, into the thicket where he knew Gandalf and the dwarves were asleep. If he strained his ears, he could almost make out Bombur's snores amid the wailing downpour. He fancied it sounded like some slumbering leviathan striking shudders deep through the core of the earth with each mighty breath. He shivered and sternly told himself to focus. It was Bombur. Only Bombur.

"Why are you awake?" he asked, half-longing for distraction, half-wondering why he even cared. ( _He knew, of course. Would never have admitted it._ )

"Questions ought to be answered, Master Baggins, before you pose new ones," Thorin rejoined, though his voice was rough with lack of sleep, not asperity.

"Which is precisely what I have done."

"No," Thorin murmured, and in the darkness Bilbo could imagine that quirk of the lip, that incline of the head. He told himself he did not care. "You have not."

"Oh," he breathed out into the night, watching as the misty puff of air was shredded by the wind. _Oh._ Scatter-brained he had been; _it's a marvel you keep all your rivers and mountains, and all your tales besides, beneath these very curls_ , his mother had said, stooping to press a fond kiss to the crown of his head. But many a long year had bloomed since then, and respectable hobbits were hardly known for boorish conversation.

Silence crept back between them, and with it the distress of the world. Bilbo fell into a half-dream, almost convincing himself that they had not spoken at all.

"Come, Master Baggins," Thorin grunted, gruff tone snapping right back into place. Bilbo rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. "You'll catch your death in this weather." And he slung an arm over Bilbo's shoulders, hoisting him to his feet.

And Bilbo went, and did not think about it at all, thank you very much.

X X

The sun kissed warmth into his skin, grass was ticklish and sprightly against his palms, the Anduin lapped lightly against its low banks, Gandalf had promised he would stay for a while longer, and the horror of the tunnels of the goblins was truly, finally behind them. Bilbo had not been in so fine a mood in days.

"Master Baggins." Bilbo sat up so fast that the world lurched in his vision.

"May I help you?" he queried, the words automatically springing from their perennial perch on his lips.

"We are leaving soon." The sun was drooping just past noon, and Bilbo found himself squinting up at Thorin, haloed as he was in its light. He could feel heat scorch beneath his skin, and fervently hoped that Thorin would not notice his blush. The dwarf before him was clad only in his breeches, and before when they had bathed in the river—

Before he had not worn even those.

Bilbo gave a jerky nod. His heart was hammering in his chest, so much so that he felt certain that if only Thorin looked down, he would see the rise and the fall, the madly fluttering pulse that was currently choking him. "All right," he appended, when Thorin still did not budge.

"I have not properly thanked you."

"There is no need to," Bilbo assured him with a smile. A giddy little flame ignited in his chest, and with a fondness that he could not quite deny, he stoked it. "Truly, Thorin, your life is thanks enough."

"Should you ever need anything—"

"Yes, yes, everyone has already pledged their service to me, if you remember?"

"I have not," Thorin returned, quietly. He crouched down at eye level with Bilbo and laid a hand on his shoulder. Despite the sun and the warmth, Bilbo shivered. Thorin looked like he wanted to say something else, something _more_ , but instead his hand darted out and swept a few flyaway locks of hair out of Bilbo's face, and then he was gone and Bilbo was left blinking up into the sun.

X X

Sleep evaded him, though truly it was nothing new. He had relieved Dwalin of watch duty, he had assured him that it was no trouble at all, but the look Dwalin had surreptitiously slipped his way when he thought he was not looking was one of concern. But not suspicion. Never suspicion. Heavily he plopped down into a corner, and hedged in by stone and misgivings, he did not feel the nipping wind as it hissed through the aperture at the top of the wall.

But he did hear footsteps, and he thought he knew to whom they belonged.

"It is not your turn to watch, Master Baggins," Thorin said as he emerged upon the ramparts, but despite his words, there was no glimmer of surprise in his voice.

"Neither is it yours." He should have expected it. ( _He had. Hoped for it, even, though he shouldn't have, not with the Arkenstone stashed beneath his bedroll._ )

Dawn shimmered far away in the east, and beneath its wan light, Bilbo could see the smile curving across Thorin's face. Rueful it was, and his heart constricted painfully in his chest. ( _He should not have come up here._ )

"You will not mind some company." It was not a question. Bilbo shook his head in answer all the same.

Thorin slid down to the floor, bracing his back against the wall and stretching his legs out in front of him. He did not look at Bilbo—he did not look at anything. But Bilbo did glance at him, and at the crown perching atop his head, and he hardened his resolve.

"Do you still have that acorn with you?" Thorin asked into the silence, and without pause for consideration, Bilbo dug into the pocket of his vest. His fingers brushed against cool metal, and in his mind he saw the glint of gold, a flaming wheel, and almost he gave in to the mounting impetus to put on the Ring; but he didn't, and instead his fist closed around the smooth shell of the acorn.

He offered it to Thorin, palm upward. With care Thorin cradled the acorn between his fingers, and before Bilbo could withdraw, his other hand shot out to grasp him about the wrist. Bilbo's breath hooked into his throat as Thorin shifted his grip, drawing his thumb in a caress across the back of his hand, and the diffuse crush of hot guilt within him dropped like a burning stone into his chest.

"Thorin—"

Thorin kissed him into silence, and against his mouth Bilbo made a desperate little noise that might have been mistaken for exuberance. Lips met slowly, nothing more than a tender brush at first, in a cadence already so familiar that Bilbo could not quite convince himself that the prickle at the corners of his eyes ought to be blamed on the whipping wind. They broke apart, eventually, Bilbo slumping into his corner, Thorin gazing, truly gazing, at the acorn in his hand with a peculiar nakedness caught across his face like living flame. And then he was pressing the acorn into Bilbo's limp fingers and dragging himself to his feet once more.

"Join me in the Hall when you are relieved," Thorin bid him as the faint flash of his crown vanished into the darkness of the mountain. Before Bilbo could swallow down the crowd of emotion lodged in his throat, Thorin had left.


End file.
